


First Times (usually lead to seconds)

by noelia_g



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g





	First Times (usually lead to seconds)

The first time he had almost (and he was eternally grateful to whatever deity looked after men and bats alike, for the 'almost' part) gave in and kissed Jim Gordon was under the most inconvenient circumstances. Not the worst possible, no, but he had a hard time imagining worse, and imagine he did try, in an effort to will his erection to fade.

Bruce Wayne had just happened to provide the necessary distraction for the police commissioner to reach his weapon unnoticed by the thugs who held up the guests at the Wayne's fundraiser (and he really needed to stop throwing those, because gods, they apparently never ended well). Much as Bruce hoped, Jim Gordon with a gun was enough to remedy the situation in no time (impressive, actually, but not that surprising), and soon, as the arriving officers started making arrests and escorting the guests out, Gordon searched him out in the crowd.

"Mr Wayne," Jim said, extending his hand, his voice just a little rough and his breathing still a little hastened, and of course, let's not forget the suit he was wearing, again. Bruce certainly couldn't, and neither could his dick. For heaven's sake, it was really starting to be infuriating. "Are you alright?" Gordon's eyes held warmth that not even Batman had had directed at himself ever before, but it was faintly familiar to Bruce Wayne, from long ago. Concern. Comfort. Not helping at all, in his current predicament.

"Just great," Bruce smiled widely, trying his best not to sound sarcastic, or betray in any other way that he was lying through his teeth. "Just a little..." wired, dizzy, incredibly turned on, hard... "confused," he settled for.

Gordon laughed, saying something Bruce didn't quite catch, what with the ringing in his ears, and Jim's face all too close to his, bow tie now untied and top buttons of his shirt undone, and this was a really, really bad idea...

"Master Bruce, your guests are leaving." Never was Alfred's clipped tone so well-timed and so unwelcome at the same time.

"Thank you, Alfred. If you'll excuse me, Commissioner."

He considered firing Alfred for that knowing smirk he had offered, but wasn't so sure Alfred would agree to be rehired.

Hours later, guests long gone, along with the police, and the cleaning crew, he stares at the ceiling in the bedroom he uses so rarely it's still unfamiliar. But the feeling low in his stomach, that's not new, and once again it's connected to Jim Gordon, and it was inconvenient enough when only the Batman got it, looking into Jim's open face, finding trust and honesty (and it shouldn't be that addicting, but God help him it was), but now that just a memory of a handshake and an approving smile was enough to have Bruce Wayne slowly stroke himself through his pants...

A little voice at the back of his head, sounding suspiciously British, suggests therapy. Like that would help. The only good thing about this is that even the imaginary Alfred sounds disapproving enough to have an effect of a cold shower, and Bruce spends the next few hours watching the play of lights in the city below, until the sun shyly came up on the horizon.

"Good Morning, Master Bruce," Alfred says, coming in with the breakfast tray, sounding too smug for Bruce's liking. "The party made both the social and crime columns. Again."

"That sounded suspiciously like a complaint, Alfred."

"It was one, Sir. Please remember that bloodstains aren't easy to remove from the carpeting." He fills the coffee cup, and straightens up, his expression unreadable. He's good at unreadable expressions, Bruce had always wondered if it was a British thing. "There's also a message for you," he says and pauses for long enough to cause Bruce to roll his eyes. The penchant for drama is undoubtedly an Alfred thing. "Commissioner Gordon would like to take your statement on last night's events, at a time convenient for you."

Bruce held his gaze for a long moment, trying not to give anything away. Finally, he sighed. "Say it, Alfred."

"I can't imagine what you mean, Sir."

"Alfred."

"Of course, in my time, we didn't call it 'giving statements', but I guess that the times change."

"Thank you, Alfred. Is that all?"

"Should I call the Commissioner back and tell him that any time of his choosing would be, ah, convenient?"

"That will be all, Alfred."

This entire thing seems like a really bad idea, but usually Alfred is the first one (and yes, the only one), to point out the idiocy of his ideas, and now he's being almost encouraging. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't going to end up disastrously.

But even if it does, Bruce thinks, absently tying the knot on his tie, it will probably be worth it.

The first time Bruce had kissed Jim Gordon was unplanned. No matter what Alfred had said, muttered, mumbled, or implied by a pointed look or a raised eyebrow, all Bruce intended to do was go down to the station and give his statement

Honestly, he should have learned the lesson by now, about plans. And about Alfred being usually right, damn him.

There were... factors he did not consider, even though he should. For one, he knew Jim's workaholic habits, and should have really known he wouldn't go home to change, but would instead head straight for his office, throwing himself into work, bow tie gone, jacket carelessly thrown over the back of the chair. And while the thought of Bruce Wayne of all people being turned on by incomplete evening wear was quite ridiculous... it was nonetheless true. The suspenders are the worst. (Or the best. It really depended on how you chose to look at the matter.)

"Thank you for coming in so promptly, Mr Wayne," Gordon says, standing up, his expression surprised, but not unpleasantly so, Bruce notes. The polite smile smoothened out the worry lines a little, but they are still too visible in the morning light. And for heaven's sake, Bruce knows he is in deep trouble here when the first thought after noticing that is about tiring Gordon out enough for him to sleep through the night.

(Batman didn't have those thoughts. Well, fine, maybe occasionally, a fleeting interest, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, and they stuck strictly to business, and in no way did Batman's pulse speed up in response to Gordon's smiles. Hell, no. Oh, fuck.)

"I've been in the area anyway," he lies, and judging by the look on Jim's face, he didn't lie very well. "Now, what is it that you wanted from me, Commissioner?" And yes, he might have meant the innuendo. Scratch the 'might have'.

Honestly, at some point all Alfred's comments about him being the worst candidate in the world to have a secret identity were absolutely true.

The statement part of the entire 'giving the statement' thing isn't complicated. Gordon asks all the questions Bruce expected him to ask, and jots down the answers, the corner of his mouth rising slightly in quiet amusement. Bruce frowns at this, it's different than it used to be, it's almost as if Gordon didn't buy the airhead act, and it was a damn good airhead act. Well, maybe he overdid it a little, claiming he had acted just because he really needed to go to the restroom, but still. Bruce really didn't expect to regret the fact that Jim Gordon was really damn smart.

Batman didn't have those problems. Damn him, too. And this very thought probably qualified him for therapy.

"...restroom," Gordon repeats absently, writing it down with a flourish. And really, is the dramatic performance necessary? Bruce did realise by now that he dug his own grave, thank you very much. "Well, Mr Wayne, at least it was resolved without any damage to your property this time. What is the tally, three cars, one motorcycle, and one yacht?"

"Technically, one mansion, too," Bruce mutters, not really enjoying the line of conversation, but determined to see it through. And then go home, pour himself a stiff drink, and... well, look at it for a moment before emptying it into the sink and listening to Alfred's comments about this not being the proper way to treat a good single malt. "Of course, this was mostly my fault. As were the cars, as you recall. I paid my tickets, though."

"Oh, I'm sure you did," Gordon says, and the half-smile is back, and really, this is the last thing Bruce needed right now. "I'm also sure you're a busy man, Mr Wayne, and wouldn't want to monopolise your time," he adds, standing up, and this is Bruce's cue, to take the chance and make his escape. As it is, he has trouble biting back the 'please do' in response to that comment. Really, what is he thinking? Oh, right, his thought process had apparently shut down when he walked in and looked at Jim.

He stands up before the moment becomes awkward. Well, more so. "Bruce," he offers, and his smile widens when Gordon nods, and reaches out to shake his hand. And it's almost too easy, when Jim smiles warmly, almost too easy to shift closer and kiss him.

He half expects... well, not a punch, probably, but at least a push. He's prepared to blame it on the adrenaline from last night, or on... well, anything he can think of. What he doesn't expect at all are Jim's lips parting slightly, and, just for a brief moment, responding to the kiss, before Jim pulls away.

"That's one way of switching to the first name basis," Gordon says, and Bruce barks a short laugh, still shocked, both by his own actions and by the outcome. Did he really do that? And while we're at it, did he completely lose his mind?

"I..." he starts, but doesn't really have anything to follow with. "Should go," he finishes, shaking his head at himself. "Have a nice day, Commissioner," he adds before turning and walking away.

Batman really doesn't have those problems.

The first time Bruce had... oh, fuck this, counting the first times wasn't doing him any good, especially not on the uncharted waters of... what was he calling it today? Alfred called it 'wooing the commissioner', but Alfred was clearly insane. At Bruce's absolutely innocent and unrelated idea of funding the new crime lab for the GCPD, he had remarked that normal people send flowers first. So, yes, one shouldn't really listen to Alfred.

Not even the criminals were helpful today, one could usually count on their efforts to provide a necessary distraction (if one was a masked vigilante, that is, in other cases, not so much), but nothing so far, and he was actually desperate enough he'd take a minor assault, or, as the day passed, and the desire to go visit Jim Gordon in his office again grew stronger, a cat stuck in a tree (as long as it wasn't anything about a dog. He really doesn't like dogs anymore.)

Thankfully, even though Batman couldn't apparently count on the universe, Bruce Wayne had better luck, and a stroke of it had came with a phonecall from Julie Madison, wishing for a distraction of her own, from revisions to the upcoming bar exam, and all her lawyer- and law studying- friends wanting to know how was she doing. He could have kissed her at this point, and he would have if their relationship was still about that. For the risk of sounding cliche, this boat had sailed, even if it was a much stable and safer one than the one he boarded just a few days ago. Or maybe months ago. What exactly was he counting from?

Also, note to self: look into boats. Batman might find a use for one at some point, and it paid to be prepared.

This was, apart from the strange and a little uncomfortable segue into the subject of boats, roughly how he ended up in a theatre foyer, waiting for Julie to succeed in her efforts of ending a phonecall from her father, about her exams.

"Mr Wayne," someone said, next to him, and he turned with a sinking feeling in his stomach, because by now he really knew this voice.

"I think we've agreed about the first names, Commissioner," he muttered pointedly, rewarded by the infuriating smile, the one where just a corner of Jim's mouth rose in bemusement.

"Ah, yes. I guess we did."

By that point, Julie had finished her conversation and turned off her phone with a frustrated huff, moving to stand next to him. "Good evening, Commissioner," she said with a wide smile, and Gordon nodded curtly, the polite bemusement never leaving his face. Damn him.

"Miss Madison," he said after a moment, clearly recalling the name with some difficulty. Bruce threw him a surprised glance, but then realised the commissioner was obliged to attend quite a lot of social events. And wear a tux to each one of them, apparently, which did wonders for Bruce's libido, and nothing for his self-control. Gordon turned to his left, something catching his eye, and another smile brightening his face, and heaven, was Bruce jealous of whatever had caused this one to appear.

"Ah, Barbara," Gordon said, and Bruce blinked, confused, and wasn't there a divorce? Was... But a girl, not older than thirteen, probably, considering Bruce wasn't the best judge of age when it came to kids, took Gordon's arm with a wide smile.

"Ready, Dad," she pushed her glasses up her nose, in a strangely familiar way, and Bruce was actually quite ashamed for finding this entirely adorable just by the merit of being a mirror of Jim's usual gesture. Adorable. He was using that very word, albeit only in his thoughts, but this wasn't a great comfort. What was the world coming to?

Note to self: look into the therapy idea. Find a therapist who wouldn't actually need the entire story, or, ideally, none of it, to help.

"Miss Gordon," he said, bowing his head, and she gave him a considering stare, then smiled, and nodded back. For his part, Gordon looked entirely too amused by the entire thing. Bruce glared at him for a second.

"It's Babs' birthday," Jim supplied. "The play is a part of the gift."

"Which we're gonna be late for, Dad," Barbara said, striving to keep the petulant note out of her voice, appear grownup. "And I don't really want to look for our row in the dark," she added, in a tone that suggested that this has happened at least once before. Bruce wasn't surprised, he had seen Gordon be late for too many personal events.

"Well, if this is a birthday gift, maybe you would like to join us in the box?" he offered before he could stop himself, earning himself surprised looks from both Julie and Gordon, and a wide smile from Barbara, who turned to her father, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket.

"Can we?"

Julie smiled brightly. "That would be fantastic. I hadn't seen the play yet, have you?" she started, and Barbara chatted away, following her inside. Gordon was shaking his head, a soft sound of something muttered under his breath that Bruce couldn't quite make out.

Out loud, however, all Jim said was "Thank you," with a sideways glance at Bruce, a soft smile tugging at his lips, smoothing out the lines in his face. And if Bruce wasn't gone, head over heels and really screwed, this would be the moment he lost it.

And the way the back of his hand briefly brushed Jim's as they walked towards the box? Not helping, not at all.

Julie kept on throwing him curious glances throughout the play, and it might or might not have something to do with the fact that he had spent more time watching Jim Gordon's profile than he did watching the stage. He could almost hear the wheels in her brain turning, considering all the times he had begged off dates, all the nights he had disappeared for when they were still actually doing the dating thing, and coming up with all the wrong conclusions.

Fine, maybe the right conclusions, at this point. But back then, he had the reasonable excuse of fighting crime. And occasionally, secretly meeting Jim Gordon on rooftops, or the fire escape of his house, or... well. Fine.

The play over, Barbara thrilled, but already falling asleep on her feet and trying to hide it bravely, Julie glanced at her watch and announced she does actually need to at least look through her notes, for the peace of mind, and Bruce of course offered to drive her home. He did make a similar offer to Gordon and Barbara, but Jim had just said he had a car outside, and with a final smile steered his sleepy daughter out, turning just once, to glance at Bruce with a small smile.

"God, you really are gone, aren't you?" Julie laughed, and shook her head. "Is it wrong of me to wish for the tabloids to get a whiff of it? The sound of hearts of all Gotham debutantes breaking simultaneously will cause tremors registered on the Richter scale."

"Were you always such a smart-ass, or are you studies to blame?" he asked, and glanced at her searchingly.

She nodded. "Yes, we're fine. Drive me home, I have a date with my books."

He did. And this was supposed to be the end of the night, and for once, he was going to shock Alfred by being home before midnight (barring any interruption from the outlaws of the city, but the way his day was going, this was unlikely). But instead, he found himself first bribing an antique bookshop's owner to open the shop at a very strange hour, and then, even worse, he was standing on Gordon's porch, debating whether he should knock or just walk away and try the crime lab angle.

Finally, awkwardly clutching a package under his arm, he did knock, and listened to the sound of footsteps padding down the stairs. He could still turn away, even without the suit he had a knack for disappearing into the shadows. He could...

The doors opened, and Gordon stared at him, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Mr Wayne," he said after a second of hesitation. "Now that is a surprise. What can I do for you?"

Why on earth did the man keep on giving him those openings? And to add to the problem, wearing his dress shirt half undone? "Actually, I came here to see your daughter."

Gordon seemed to be doing his best not to laugh. "I'm gonna say that now, she's too young for you."

"Very funny," Bruce raised the package and shook it gently. "Birthday present."

Thankfully, Gordon refrained from asking any more questions, because this was the flimsiest excuse Bruce could come up with, but it had the advantage over all the others by being the only one. He just rolled his eyes, his mustache still moving slightly, as if he was biting back a grin. "Come in, then," he offered, moving aside. "I'll get her," he added, walking up to the stairs. "Babs, seems like you have one more birthday surprise."

She was down the stairs in an instant. In Hello Kitty pyjamas. Bruce's day could get a little more surreal, probably, but he couldn't think of a way. "Here, you've said you've only read the abridged version of the play, and I had this laying around, gathering dust in the library... so, happy birthday."

She glanced at her dad searchingly, then accepted the package, gently easing off the packing paper. She caressed the spine of the book, smiling widely, and then gasped, turning the first page. "Oh, my God. First edition?"

"Gathering dust," Bruce repeated, shrugging, and she lunged forward, hugging him.

"Thank you!"

Gordon nodded at her. "Good, you'll read it tomorrow. Way past the bedtime."

"Can I just read through the first act?" she pleaded, her eyes already scanning the first page.

"Fine. Only because you're the birthday girl. And don't tell mom I let you stay up so late." She nodded, and started running up the stairs again, giggling, clutching the book close to her chest.

"She does love books," Bruce muttered, smiling with some satisfaction.

Gordon rolled his eyes at him. "Gathering dust?" he repeated with a little overdone nonchalant tone. "Didn't your library burn down, along with the rest of your house?"

Busted. And what was with all the questions? Next time Gordon asks for Batman's help in the interrogation, he sure isn't getting it. He is way too good at it himself.

"That was the other library."

"Clearly," Jim muttered, and made half a step forward, reaching to place his hand against Bruce's neck. "But the scheming is kind of attractive," he added, right before his lips touched Bruce's, the kiss instantly softening as Bruce inched closer, lips parting in a soundless moan.

When, after a moment, Gordon pulled away, leaving all Bruce's senses overloaded, but not in an entirely bad way, he was smiling, Bruce's favourite smile, the open, actually happy one.

"So if I were to call tomorrow and ask you out to dinner, I wouldn't get a no?" Bruce asked, just to hear Gordon laugh.

"Call. I'll see what I can do."

He's back to counting the firsts, so there. And the first date started with him in Gordon's office, almost causing a heart attack in his assistant. Gordon, however, just raised his eyebrow.

"Weren't you supposed to call?" he asked, and Bruce nodded.

"Possibly. But I wasn't sure you would actually say yes to dinner plans," he offered, shrugging. It might be a novel approach, yes, certainly an unorthodox one, and some people might call it insane (thank you, Alfred), but it didn't really differ in that manner from other things he managed to pull off on daily, or nightly, basis. "Besides, I was told my scheming ways were attractive."

"I said 'kind of'," Jim muttered, but he was already reaching for his jacket. "And you are also kind of lucky that I'm very hungry," he added, his smile belying the seemingly casual tone.

Bruce smiled back, then frowned slightly. "Are you really free? I'm springing up the plans on you, and maybe your daughter..."

"Her mother picked her up earlier today," Gordon said. "I'm entirely at your disposal," he added, watching Bruce's reaction with a small smirk. Honestly, it was not playing fair. "Speaking of my daughter, however," Gordon continued as they made their way to the elevator, "you've made quite an impression yesterday, with the book, and the theatre box. Fair warning, if she develops a crush on you, you're paying the therapy bill."

Bruce grimaced at the thought. "Deal." Maybe his imaginary therapist could help. She was racking up a really impressive imaginary bill.

"And of course," Gordon continued as they walked up to the newest Ferrari (replaced the Ferrari Bruce had accidentally crashed against a runaway vehicle of a bunch of bank robbers. For some reason, things like that kept happening to Bruce Wayne), turning a little to look at Bruce, "If she does develop a crush on you, I'll have to shoot you."

The tone was just as serious as when Gordon was discussing strategy with Batman, and it took Bruce a few seconds to laugh. "Is it a rule?"

"I believe so. Shoot the first one, and make sure the news gets around. She won't be dating until she's at least thirty."

"Good luck with that plan," Bruce snorted, and Gordon nodded sadly.

"Quite so."

The car moved smoothly through the streets, and they fell into a comfortable silence. Jim let his head fall back a little, eyes half closed, and Bruce willed himself to look at the road, not to his side. "If you're tired..." he started, and Gordon snorted, not moving.

"You know, for someone supposedly wanting a date, you are taking every possible opportunity to back out."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I was just making sure you won't fall asleep halfway through it. That wouldn't be very flattering. And did you say date?"

"Oh, it might just as well be," Gordon sighed theatrically.

"The enthusiasm is overwhelming," Bruce noted, as the car pulled into the garage.

Gordon smiled, turning slightly, waiting for Bruce to park in the row of other flashy cars, and turn off the engine, before he undid his seat belt and shifted closer, leaning over the gear shift to Bruce's side, his breath warming Bruce's lips before they were caught in a soft kiss. This time, however, Bruce was prepared, coaxing Jim's mouth open, licking at the corner of his mouth, the place that infuriating smirk usually resided. At some point, he couldn't say when, his fingers tangled in Jim's shirt, tie caught between them, pulling him even closer.

Jim broke the kiss first, moving away just enough for his words to resonate against Bruce's lips. "Enthusiastic enough?"

"It's a start," Bruce muttered.

It's still the first date, and it feels like a very first, in many ways, not only in how all the excitement and anxiousness rolls into a ball deep down in his stomach. And getting into the penthouse feels like sneaking into the house late at night, past curfew.

But, as Bruce expected, the apartment is empty. Alfred announced he was going to use the time to check on the developments at the mansion since, as he said, chaperoning was not in his job description. Bruce was eager to point out that sarcasm wasn't either, but all it did was earn him a blank stare and a comment about sarcasm being a calling, not a job. Thankfully, it didn't stop Alfred from getting a dinner ready and setting the table. Unfortunately, it also meant that he apparently had bought out the entire city's candles' supply. Bruce is trying to rack his brain for anything he had done lately to piss Alfred off, and arrives at the conclusion that this must have been years in the making.

Gordon is laughing the moment they step out of the elevator, trying to cover it with a very unconvincing cough, his shoulders shaking. "The decor has changed, I see," he says, words slightly slurred together as he keeps the mirth at bay.

"Would you believe it an ironic statement?" Bruce asks, before sighing. "I think I'm firing Alfred for this. For at least two days."

Gordon shakes his head, the smile almost contained now, under false concern. "What I wonder is, how on earth did he think it was safe to leave you with all those candles, with your track record."

Bruce would really like to point out that the dry wit is definitely not helping in the fire hazard situation, but stops himself, because on Jim Gordon, it also happens to be amazingly attractive. "I'm going to ignore that comment," he says instead. "I hope that at least we're getting the pasta for dinner. That's about the only thing that would make up for the display."

Jim looks at him for a moment, smiling softly. "How does it taste reheated?"

"Even better," he says, wondering, just a little, and unable to keep himself from smiling back. "Why?"

"Just wondering," Jim shrugs, before making three steps towards Bruce, reaching to place his hand at the back of Bruce's neck, the gentle pressure of his fingers making his skin burn, ripples of heat spreading in circles. Somehow, the kiss is different than the ones they've shared before, and as much as Bruce loathes the cliche, it's the truth (there are cliches he enjoys, of course, as any masked vigilante would, but he prefers to keep them out of the more, ahem, private areas of his life). It's not softer, or harder, but there's an intent now, in the way Jim's tongue coaxes his lips open, fingers on his neck sliding gently lower and to the front, tugging at Bruce's tie.

"It tastes much better reheated," Bruce offers as casually as he can, his breath just a little bit shallow.

Jim laughs, the sound gently muffled, resonating against Bruce's throat, tickling just at the pulse point, and the sensation is followed by lips and tongue, tracing a wet line up Bruce's neck. "Good. A fair warning, though, if the candles are accompanied by rose petals in the bedroom, I'm walking out."

Bruce snorts a laugh, then frowns. They are talking about Alfred here. He wouldn't... He might. "There's a couch, here," he offers, and watches as a smirk appears on Jim's lips, and holds himself back from licking it off them.

"I'm way too old for couches," Gordon mutters, and eases Bruce's tie off completely, his fingers working on the shirt with skill belying his words about age.

"Table? Kitchen counter?" Bruce suggests pleasantly, realising he might as well start on taking off Jim's clothes as well. They wouldn't want one of them to have an unfair advantage, after all.

"Just lead the way to the bedroom, will you?" Jim huffs in exasperation.

Bruce snorts, Jim's tone is not dissimilar to the one he uses when talking of his paperwork, or black tie affairs he's required to attend. One might think he wasn't rock hard at the moment, something Bruce can feel very well, pressed against his thigh. "Yes, sir," he offers, and grins at the expected eyeroll.

He pulls at Jim's tie, getting a follow-up to the eyeroll, but followed by a smile, as they move towards the bedroom door, much slower than they would if they weren't stopping to kiss every second step.

"Wait," Bruce says, and opens the door just a little, to peek inside. No roses, thank god, no candles either.

"Is it safe?" Jim asks with an overdone worry, and Bruce nods, laughing, and pulls Jim inside, kicking the door closed behind them. "Good," Jim mutters, "I didn't bring my gun."

"Do I have to make the obvious joke now?" Bruce asks, his hand sliding down the front of Jim's pants, finger edging the line of the zipper.

"Please don't. In fact, you could stop talking in general," he suggests, his voice cracking a little at the end of the sentence, as Bruce move his hand to palm Jim's dick.

Bruce is smirking, his lips curling against Jim's neck, moments before he gently bites at the skin there, but enough to leave a small mark. "Are you suggesting I could employ my mouth otherwise?" he asks, causing Jim to groan, half in pleasure, half in exasperation. "Because I definitely could," he adds, tongue soothing the bite on Jim's neck.

"Bruce..." It's a plea, and Bruce isn't sure what for, but Jim probably doesn't know either. But the low, throaty sound he makes next, sends shivers down Bruce's spine, and sets him in motion, pushing Jim towards the bed.

He sinks to his knees in front of Jim, and tugs at his belt, then the zipper. His fingers shake just a little, from impatience, and from the way Jim sucks in his breath, as somehow that sound seems to resonate under Bruce's skin. "Would this be better than talking?"

Jim gives him a look that might mean 'are you fucking kidding me?' or just 'get along with it', Bruce isn't sure, but it's both annoyed and turned on, and on Jim Gordon, it's an irresistible combination, and he moves forward, taking Jim in in a one swift movement.

The annoyance is gone in an instant, and Gordon groans in a way Bruce has been wanting to hear for almost too long now, raw and unguarded. Bruce doesn't stop at his task until Jim's hand is in his hair, pushing him away, his eyes half-closed, and his breathing ragged as he tries to find his voice.

"Just come here," he mutters finally, and Bruce smiles, moving up onto the bed, tugging at Jim's tangled clothes, to get them off. His hands brush against Jim's, who's trying to do the same with him, and they keep on interrupting one another, but it doesn't really matter, as long as their breaths mix, their lips inches apart.

They shift closer, layers separating them gone, skin against skin now, and their hands meet between them, brushing against each other as their strokes much in perfect synchrony. Someone moans, and this close, Bruce isn't really sure who it is, and then Jim's mouth are on his, teeth grazing his lower lip, enough to bruise.

They stay like this for a long moment, in silence, fingertips brushing skin, warm breaths mixing with cold air, and Bruce could really move and turn the heating up, but for the life of him, he doesn't want to shift even an inch.

The lights flicker and go out, and they still don't move, Jim just raises his eyebrow at the darkness swallowing the buildings outside the window. "Scheduled maintenance," he mutters, as if remembering, and Bruce nods. "That would explain the candles."

Bruce smirks. "Alfred is not fired," he allows, and Jim laughs, his face hidden in Bruce's neck. It's a really fantastic sound.

*  
days later

First day of winter, and, like clockwork, first day of snow. For Gotham PD it means more traffic, and crimes moving inside, domestic homicides rates going up, but fewer stabbings in the streets. At least the crime scenes will be warm, but that's not really an upside.

Of course, this aspect doesn't really matter to Jim Gordon as of late, he hadn't been to a proper crime scene in weeks (why yes, he does have a definition of a proper crime scene, and it doesn't involve explosives, half a dozen hostages, and an array of people in masks, thank you very much. He isn't entirely opposed to one individual in a mask, but that's neither here not there).

Snow, and colder days, mean just that his coffee is growing cold much sooner, as he sits on the steps of his house, and looks up at a sign that's not there.

"We should stop meeting like this," he says into the darkness, and is pretty sure that the darkness smirks in response.

"Have a better idea?"

"I thought you might think of something," he mutters, and takes a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. "You have the best gadgets, after all, something could be arranged perhaps? If not, there's this new development called a cellphone, have a look into that."

Now there really is a smirk, and a definite shape coming out of the shadows. "I'll do my best."

Gordon nods. "I'm pretty sure you're here for a reason, though. The charade guy?"

"That's not what the press is calling him," Batman points out, and Gordon grimaces slightly. Of course it's not.

"I think we've established a while ago what I think about the press," he says pleasantly. Well, not really pleasantly. "We don't have much, but I have the copies of all the puzzles he had sent us," he says, and reaches out with the file.

A moment passes, before Batman takes it. "About the press," he starts, but Gordon shakes his head.

"They're my problem, not yours," he says, or rather repeats. They had this conversation before.

"We should stop meeting like this," Batman throws his words at him, but this time, they're not supposed to be funny.

Gordon looks away for a moment. One grainy picture, and the press had a ball with spinning conspiracy theories about him and Batman. And, unfortunately, some of them were dangerously close to the truth.

"Jim..." Batman starts, and Gordon is on his feet in an instant.

"You have the files, let me know if you find something we missed."

"Jim." His voice tenses, and Gordon stops for a moment, already half-turned towards the doors.

"No, you don't. You have the files, and I am already late somewhere. And I assume, you too have places to be, things to do..." he lets his voice fade a little. "So I suggest you go, too."

When he turns, a moment later, he's alone, and the tracks on the ground are slowly disappearing under the falling snow. He glances at his watch, and counts. If he leaves in fifteen minutes, he will be late, but at least he'll be certain Bruce will be there before he is.

He's not entirely sure he's right about this, but he'll wait, just in case.


End file.
